


Across The Snowy Places

by profdanglais



Series: Secret Things [10]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: All The Tropes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Sharing a Bed, Snowed In, Thanksgiving, author!killian, trope-y trope tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:53:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21573301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/profdanglais/pseuds/profdanglais
Summary: Desperate to avoid another disastrous setup, Emma Swan tells her sister-in-law Mary Margaret she doesn’t need a date for Thanksgiving dinner... because she’s dating her neighbour, Killian Jones. The neighbour she tries to avoid but can’t seem to get out of her head.Killian has been captivated by Emma from the moment they met, and he’s thrilled at this opportunity to get closer to her. But when they are trapped in a freak snowstorm in a room with only one bed, can he finally take the chance he’s been longing for, or will his actions drive Emma away forever?In other words: TROPES GALORE
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Series: Secret Things [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1372015
Comments: 99
Kudos: 331





	1. TUESDAY

Emma squeezes her eyes shut and rubs her temples, and valiantly resists the urge to pound her head against her desk. 

“Mary Margaret,” she begs. “No. Please.” 

Her sister-in-law remains implacable. “Thanksgiving, Emma. Our place. No excuses.” 

Emma grips her phone tightly, pressing it hard against her ear. “But it’s all the way out in the country!” she protests. 

“You have a car,” replies Mary Margaret firmly. “More or less.” 

“I don’t have snow tires.” 

“It’s not going to snow.” 

“It might!” 

“You’re just making excuses now, Emma,” says Mary Margaret in her teacher voice, the one that’s not mad just _disappointed_ , and that small part of Emma that still feels ten years old sometimes writhes in shame. 

“MM for real, you know how I hate these fluffy family get-togethers,” she pleads, hoping that blunt honesty will work where excuses have not. “I never feel comfortable—” 

“And you’ll never learn to unless you come to them!” retorts Mary Margaret, and Emma can almost see her drawing a line under the sentence on her blackboard. Two thick white lines of chalk, solid and inexorable. 

“Argh!” she growls, giving her temples a vicious squeeze. “You are the single most infuriating person I’ve ever met.” 

“Well, _that’s_ not true, you’ve met David.” 

“Okay, second most infuriating! And the two of you together are _impossible!_ ” 

Mary Margaret sighs. “Look, Emma, it’s just that since we moved to your mom's old house we feel like we never see you! And you know how I love to cook for the holidays. I promise the party won’t be terrible, honestly, loads of people you actually like will be there. It’ll be good. In fact, it _might_ be the start of something great.” 

Mary Margaret has her starry-eyed voice on now and Emma feels a cold trickle of fear run down her spine.

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, there’s this guy—” 

“No.” 

“He’s perfect for you, Emma!” 

“ _Absolutely not_ ,” Emma hisses, forcing herself not to shout. She still has nightmares of the last guy Mary Margaret thought was _perfect for her_. “You are _not_ setting me up on a date for Thanksgiving! I will come to your house for dinner if I _must_ but absolutely no setups!” 

“If you’ll just give him a chance—” 

“ _No!_ ” Emma gropes desperately for a way out of this. “Listen Mary Margaret, I didn’t want to say anything because it’s early days and you _know_ what you’re like, but—I’m actually seeing someone.” 

“AAAH! WHAT! NO! TELL ME EVERYTHING!” 

Emma holds the phone away from her ear lest Mary Margaret’s delighted squealing burst her eardrum. 

“ _This_ is why I didn’t want to tell you, you know.” 

“Okay, okay,” says Mary Margaret, breathing deeply to calm herself. “But now the secret’s out you have to tell me absolutely everything about him!” 

“Mary _Margaret_.” 

“Okay! But at least tell me his name. Give me that much.” 

“It’s, um,” Emma thinks frantically. She needs a name, just a simple one, nondescript but not too ordinary. Which wouldn’t be a problem if her brain would just freaking _cooperate_. But here in the stress and pressure of the moment all she can think about is one man, the one who occupies her thoughts far too often, the first one in years to make her heart pound and her skin tingle. “It’s— _don’t say it, Emma_ —Killian.” 

_Fuck._

“Ooh, what an interesting name!” Mary Margaret’s voice is practically vibrating with delight. “Is he Irish?” 

“No, English.” _(From Bristol, love, moved here for a fresh start.)_ “From Bristol.” 

“Really? Wow! So where did you meet him?” 

“He lives across the hall.” 

“A _neighbour,_ that’s convenient—” 

“Yeah,” says Emma shortly. The last thing she wants to do right now is talk about Killian Jones. Or think about him. Or see him there in her mind’s eye, with his accent and his hair and the stupid look in his stupid blue eyes that always makes her belly flutter, and the hopeful way he smiles and flirts whenever he sees her despite the seemingly endless parade of women in and out of his apartment. “MM, I really don’t have time for this now, I’m at work,” she says, squeezing her temples again. 

“Oh, sorry! I’ll let you go. But I’ll want to hear all about everything when you guys come for Thanksgiving.” 

Emma freezes in dread. “Whoa, what do you mean ‘you guys’?” 

“Well, naturally, Killian’s invited too.” Mary Margaret sounds genuinely surprised, and Emma’s chest tightens with a new and more terrible fear. 

“But we’ve only just started dating—” she protests. 

“Oh, that’s okay, there’s no pressure or anything, I’ll keep David’s protective instincts in check.” 

“And Killian’s not even American—” 

“He can learn about our culture then.” 

Emma lets her eyes drift shut as the full horror of the situation becomes clear. “You’re not going to give up on this are you?” she groans. She’s not sure why she’s even asking; there’s never any arguing with Mary Margaret once she gets an idea in her head.

“Nope,” Mary Margaret confirms. “Resistance is futile.” 

“Ugh. Fine. I’ll see you on Thanksgiving.” 

“With Killian.” 

Emma grinds her teeth. “With Killian.” 

She hangs up the phone and gives in to the urge to pound her head on her desk. Maybe she could give herself a concussion, she thinks. Drastic perhaps, but a hell of a lot more appealing than the idea of asking Killian Jones to be her date to Thanksgiving dinner. 

—

That evening Emma does everything she can think of to delay the inevitable. She does her laundry. She does her _ironing_. She cleans her goddamn toilet. She clips her toenails. It’s when she starts to snip off the ends of her hair with the nail clippers that she finally gives herself a mental slap and gets a grip. 

_Just do it, Swan. It has to be done._

Before she can talk herself out of it again she leaps to her feet and marches out her door, knocking on Killian’s as decisively as she can manage. 

The series of expressions that parade across his face when he opens it and sees her standing there almost makes this whole idiotic situation worthwhile. He looks surprised, then confused, then delighted, then nervous, and finally the familiar flirtatious smirk settles over his features. His lips curl into a grin and his eyebrow quirks. 

Emma makes a mental note to invite him to her office poker game sometime. She’s prepared to bet his tells are obvious and it would give her great pleasure to fleece him. 

“Hey Killian,” she says. 

“Swan,” he purrs in response. “To what do I owe this honour?” 

All thoughts of tells and fleecing flee from Emma’s mind as she recalls her terrible mission. “I, um, I have a—well, a—” 

“A what?” he encourages. To his credit he looks genuinely interested in why she’s here. 

“Damn it!” she spits. “I have a favour to ask you.” 

His grin widens. “What sort of favour?” 

She sighs. “Okay, look, don’t read anything into this, but my sister-in-law is doing a big Thanksgiving dinner and she was threatening to use it to set me up with some guy and she has the _worst_ taste in men—I mean not including my brother, obviously, but she has terrible taste in men for _me_ —and so I told her that I’m seeing someone and she asked for his name and— and—” 

“Spit it out, love.” From the laughter dancing in Killian’s eyes she can tell he’s already guessed it. 

“I gave her your name okay!” She stares at a point just above his left shoulder. “And so now she thinks we’re dating and she’s invited you to her house for Thanksgiving. You don’t have to go, we can think of some excuse, but—” 

“I wouldn’t dream of refusing such a generous invitation,” Killian interrupts in a surprisingly gentle tone. “I’d love to go.” 

“But—” Her eyes fly to his and immediately she regrets it. His are soft and full of that hopeful expression he always has with her and she has to fight the urge to squirm. “But we’d have to pretend we’re—” she gestures vaguely with her hand “you know—” 

“A couple?” 

“Yeah.” 

He leans towards her, lowering his voice to a growl that has fire licking in her belly. “Oh I don’t think that will pose a problem for me, Emma,” he says. 

“Um.” Emma struggles for breath. The air feels too thin and her chest is tight and she’s sure her cheeks are bright red. “Okay. Great. Thanks. I’ll, uh, be in touch with the details. Bye.” She turns and flees back to her own apartment, missing the look on Killian’s face as he watches her go, and the way he stands staring at her door long after it has shut behind her. 

-


	2. WEDNESDAY

The last day before the Thanksgiving weekend is always hectic and Emma doesn’t get home until nearly eight. She’s exhausted and starving and in a terrible mood, made worse by the lurking knowledge that tomorrow she’s going to have to get up early and spend the day in the company of Killian Jones. She’s standing in front of her empty refrigerator wondering if she dares to sniff the milk when there is a knock on her door. She opens it to find Killian leaning against the jamb, holding a bottle of wine and a white plastic bag full of something that smells incredible. 

“I hope you like Italian,” he says. “Wine and food.” 

“I do, to both, but I don’t recall inviting you over.” 

“No indeed, you’re terribly careless about issuing invitations. And you know nothing annoys people so much as not receiving invitations.” He chuckles to himself and she frowns. 

“Private joke?” 

“Aye. If you’re lucky one day I’ll explain it to you. Are you going to let me in?” 

She wants to refuse, _oh_ how she wants to, but whatever he’s got in that bag is making her stomach rumble in delighted anticipation. “Well, since you brought food,” she says, stepping back to allow him entry. 

“And wine, love,” he reminds her, pushing away from the doorjamb with a liquid kind of grace that absolutely does not make her wonder what he’d be like in bed. 

He swaggers into the kitchen and sets the bag on the counter. “I didn’t know what you’d like so I brought several things,” he says. “I figured we could split whatever’s left.” 

Emma peers into the bag. “What have you got?” 

“There’s some lasagna, spaghetti carbonara, tagliatelle in meat sauce, and spicy chicken penne,” he says, removing the cartons and lining them up on the countertop. 

“Um, tagliatelle for me please.” Emma frowns as she spots the takeout menu tucked into the bottom of the bag. Carlotti’s. How he managed to choose her favourite meal from her favourite Italian restaurant is something she decides she’s simply not going to think about. 

“An excellent choice Swan, particularly as it leaves the carbonara for me,” Killian says. “Plates?” 

Emma retrieves two of them from her cupboard along with wine glasses, and Killian dishes out the pasta while she pours them both a glass of the Barolo he’s brought. Emma gives the wine a sniff as she carries it over to the stools at the end of the countertop where she sits to eat. She doesn’t drink red wine often but this one smells wonderful, spicy and rich, and she finds herself looking forward to trying it. 

She sits down and Killian puts a plate of pasta in front of her and hands her a napkin. She watches him as he settles himself on the stool next to her and gives her a smile. 

“You know you don’t _actually_ have to date me, right?” she says. “It’s just for Thanksgiving. To keep my sister-in-law from setting me up with some horror show.” 

“Yes, I do understand that, Swan, but I thought if we’re to make this ruse believable it might help if we knew a bit more about each other.” 

“Oh.” Of course, she thinks. That makes sense. “I guess I thought we could do that on the drive there.” 

“Just how long is this drive?”

“Um, about two hours in good weather.” 

Killian quirks an eyebrow. “So you’re saying that everything I need to know about Emma Swan can fit into that narrow window of time?” 

“Well, yeah.” She twirls pasta on her fork, avoiding his eyes. “There’s not really much to know about me.” 

“I find that very difficult to believe,” he says. 

“Oh yeah?” She tries not to sound belligerent. “What makes you think that?” 

He takes a sip of wine, but his eyes never leave her face. “You’re a bit of an open book, darling.” 

She snorts. “I’m not.” 

“Oh, but you are. I’m a writer, I observe.” 

“You’re a writer?” 

“Indeed. A fact that my girlfriend should probably be acquainted with. Even if she’s only a temporary one.” 

Something flutters in her belly at the way he says _girlfriend,_ and she takes a huge gulp of wine.

“I thought you were a teacher,” she blurts, to cover her nerves. “You’re always mentioning your students.”

“Aye. I’m a professor of maritime history, and of course writing is a big part of that.” He pauses. “But I write some other things as well.”

“What sort of other things?”

“Short stories, mostly.” 

“Mostly?” she presses, and a pink flush begins to creep across his cheekbones. 

“And some, er—poems.” He rubs at his neck, eyes fixed on his plate. 

“Is that embarrassing?” she asks, fascinated by this reaction. By this man who always has a smooth quip at the ready blushing like a summer morning. 

“It’s personal,” he replies with a small shrug. “And I don’t publish them under my own name so not many people know.” 

She wants to ask what name he does publish under, but he hurriedly changes the subject. 

“So tell me about whom I’ll be meeting at this Thanksgiving dinner,” he says. 

“Oh.” She thinks for a minute. “Well, there’s my brother and sister-in-law.” 

“Aye, so I deduced. Tell me about them.” 

“David’s my brother. Adopted brother, but—” 

“Aye, you’ve mentioned before that you were adopted. When you were fourteen?”

She nods, surprised that he remembered. “Yeah. Ruth, David’s mom, she was just supposed to be my foster mother, but…” she trails off, not certain how to explain the connection, the sense of _home_ she felt when she moved in with Ruth and David. 

Killian smiles, a soft, understanding smile she’s never seen on his face before. “But once she met you she couldn’t let you go,” he murmurs. 

“Um, yeah, I guess you could put it like that.” Emma feels herself blushing now. “We just… connected.” 

Killian finds himself relating hard to this Ruth. One meeting with Emma was all it took for him as well. 

“She passed away five years ago,” says Emma, staring at her plate. “Cancer.” 

The sadness in her voice squeezes his heart. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Yeah.” She shrugs. “It was quick, which was a shock but at least she didn’t suffer. David and Mary Margaret had just gotten engaged when she was diagnosed, they actually threw together their wedding in less than a month so she could be sure to see them married. They’ve been together since they met in college. Love at first sight.” She gives another little shrug as if to say how ridiculous the idea is, but Killian sees the longing in her eyes. 

He resists the urge to take her hand, to offer her any kind of support or sympathy. He knows she would immediately reject it. Instead he concentrates on his pasta. “So David and Mary Margaret, and who else?” he asks. 

Emma gives herself a little shake and picks up her wine glass. “Um, probably Ruby, she’s Mary Margaret’s best friend. And whoever she’s dating now. The last time I talked to her she was crazy about this girl Dorothy who’d just moved to town from Kansas, but I have no idea if that worked out.” 

“Ruby and maybe-Dorothy. Check. Who else?”

“Mary Margaret’s stepsister, Regina, will be there. At least, MM will invite her and Robin will probably make her go.” 

“Robin?”

“Regina’s husband. Regina and Mary Margaret didn’t really get along when they were growing up. They were teenagers when their parents got married and I guess there was some jealousy there. Robin and David get along great though and they keep trying to heal the breach. They’ve been trying for years. Usually, Regina and MM grit their teeth and pretend everything’s okay during the holidays then ignore each other for the rest of the year. Except on their birthdays.” She grins. “Each year they try to outdo each other by sending the most elaborate birthday card. Regina’s are usually huge and like, gilded or something, while Mary Margaret makes hers by hand out of these tiny bits of paper. It takes her weeks.” 

Killian chuckles, imagining it. “Warfare by greeting card. I like it.” 

Emma joins his laughter and for a moment the small kitchen feels warm and intimate. Her face is soft with affection for her family, her cheeks pink from the wine. She’s so beautiful she steals his breath, and Killian’s fingers tighten on his wine glass. He takes a sip to steady himself. 

“Will anyone else be there?” he asks. 

Emma bites her lip. “Um,” she says, and there’s a note in her voice that has Killian’s attention sharpening. “I guess David’s friend Graham will probably be there.” 

“Is that a problem?”

She shrugs. “Graham and I dated a bit in high school. Sometimes I think David wishes we had ended up together.” 

“Do you wish that?” His voice sounds rough to his ears. 

She stares at her empty plate. “I mean, he’s a really nice guy and all and I liked him, but there was just never any— any—” 

“Any spark,” he finishes, and she looks up. 

“Yeah,” she says. “There was no spark.” 

There’s sure and bloody well a spark with him and Emma, though, Killian thinks. It fairly crackles through the air between them and makes the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand up whenever she’s near. He’s certain she feels it too and wishes he understood why she fights it so hard. He probably should have refused her invitation, invented some excuse to placate her sister-in-law and not perpetuated this situation that she clearly finds uncomfortable. Yet when presented with the opportunity to spend some actual time with her he simply wasn’t able to stop himself from taking it. Because despite her sharp tongue and stalwart defences, and the enthusiastic way she’s shut down every attempt he’s made to get closer to her, Killian is helplessly drawn to Emma Swan. She’s a fascinating puzzle, a tangled knot of soft feelings and prickly defences and he wants to unravel her. To know her. Hell, he just wants her. 

And right now, he wants to kiss her. Her eyes are wide and locked with his, her lips slightly parted and her pulse thrumming visibly in her neck. There’s a bit of pasta sauce on the corner of her lip that he wants to lick off before licking deep into her mouth. He leans closer, holding her gaze, giving her time to back away, to stop him. She swallows hard but doesn’t move, and his heart is pounding so fiercely he can feel it in his temples. His lips are a breath away from hers when the panic flares in her eyes and she pulls away, leaping to her feet and sending her stool tumbling over onto the floor. 

“Um, it’s, uh, getting late,” she says. “And we’ll need to get going pretty early tomorrow. So, ah, I think maybe you should go.” She doesn’t look at him.

Killian stands as well, shoving his hands in his pockets and forcing down his disappointment. “Do you want the lasagna or the penne?” he asks.

“What?” 

“I promised we’d split the pasta we didn’t eat. So do you want the lasagna or penne?” 

“Um, penne I guess.” 

He nods, takes the lasagna and puts it back in the plastic bag. “Keep the rest of the wine, too,” he says as he moves to the door. He pauses with his hand on the knob. “Ah, what time will we need to leave tomorrow?” he asks, holding his breath, half expecting her to tell him to forget the whole thing. He forces himself not to look at her. 

“Is eight too early?” she asks, after a pause so long he nearly begins to panic. “That way we’d get there about ten and I can help Mary Margaret with the cooking. She wants to eat at about one.” 

He sighs, heavy with relief. “Eight is fine. I’ll see you then, Swan.” 

When the door closes behind him he leans against it for a moment, cursing himself. He knows better than anyone how skittish Emma is, but he can’t seem to stop himself pushing her, teasing and flirting with her. Trying to bloody kiss her. He makes a disgusted noise. _You’ve got to stop thinking with your dick, mate. Remember you’re in this for the long haul._

On the other side of the door, Emma manages—barely—not to pound her head against it and finally give herself that concussion. She wishes she could go back in time and give Mary Margaret a different name. Chris. Alex. Mike. Andrew. She can think of dozens of them now, now that she’s locked in to Killian with his damned gorgeous face and his eyes that see too much, the electricity that tingles across her skin whenever he’s near and his annoying habit of understanding her. 

And now she has to spend two hours alone with him in her tiny car, at a time of day when she’s at best half awake. When she _needs_ to be alert and vigilant if she’s to stand a chance against this terrifying pull she feels towards him. Against that spark that if she let it could burn her alive. 

_Damn_ it. 

-


	3. THURSDAY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY THANKSGIVING!! I don’t celebrate since I moved to the UK, but I do miss it. Not just for the food but because it’s good to take some time to reflect on the things we’re thankful for. Today I am thankful for each and every person reading this story ❤️❤️❤️
> 
> Oh, and if you thought things were trope-y before? JUST WAIT.

Killian knocks on her door at the stroke of eight. He’s punctual, Emma thinks. Add that to the already alarmingly long list of things she can’t manage to hate about him. 

She opens the door to find him grinning, holding up two paper cups and a brown bag. She tries not to smile back but it’s no use. His good humour is infectious and she’s relieved he seems to have put the awkwardness from last night behind him. 

“Are you always going to bring me food?” she asks with a scowl, like she’s not itching to see what he’s brought. 

“Perhaps. But I rather think that the most important thing I have for you this morning is coffee.” He offers her one of the cups. 

“Hmph.” She accepts it, and takes a skeptical sip. Then she sighs. It’s _perfect_. 

“How do you know I like cinnamon syrup in my coffee?” she asks as he gives her a knowing smirk and saunters into her apartment. 

“You told me,” he replies. “Remember, the day you couldn’t find your keys and were trying to dig them out of your bag and hold your coffee at the same time? You ended up dropping your mug and spilling it everywhere. You were so upset and when I asked what was wrong you said you’d used the last of your cinnamon syrup in that coffee now forming a puddle on your doormat.” He chuckles at the memory. 

She stares at him. “That was ages ago.” 

“Aye, about a year I’d say. Just after I moved here.” 

“And you still remember it.” Like he remembered that she was adopted. She’s sure she only mentioned that once, in passing. 

He meets her gaze, his eyes warm and sincere. “Of course I remember. And also”—he reaches inside the bag—“I remember your fondness for these atrocities.” He withdraws a bear claw and holds it out to her with a grin. 

“Oh, my God.” Emma practically pounces on the pastry. “I really needed this,” she says around an enormous mouthful. “Thank you, Killian.” 

“My pleasure, love.” His voice sounds rough and Emma looks at him sharply, but his attention is focused on folding the paper bag into a neat square. 

She swallows with some effort. “Didn’t you get yourself anything?” she asks before taking another, much smaller bite. 

“Ah, no, coffee’s enough for me,” he says. “I’m not much of a one for breakfast.” 

“But it’s the most important meal of the day!” Emma is genuinely surprised; Killian’s always given the impression of being a pretty healthy eater. She knows he cooks for himself most nights, if the delicious smells from his apartment are any indication. 

In fact, she now recalls, he’s invited her to join him for dinner more than once. 

He regards her with an expression she recognises as Teacher Face, having seen it on Mary Margaret far too often. “That’s rubbish manufactured by breakfast cereal advertisers, Swan,” he says, in a tone that suggests she should really know better. 

“It’s no— is it?” 

“Indeed.” 

She frowns. “How do you know?” 

“Historian, love.” 

“ _Maritime_ history.” 

“That doesn’t mean I’ve never studied any other kind.” He quirks that damned eyebrow at her. “Shall I tell you about how everything you learned in school is wrong?” 

She _really_ wants to refuse, but—“I’d like that, actually. I always hated history class but I love documentaries and things. I think maybe I just hated it because the teacher was _so_ boring.” 

“Aye.” Killian nods. “That’s an all too common complaint. Sometimes I think I should have gone into secondary teaching, to try to catch the kids before they have a chance to decide that history is dull.” 

He sounds so earnest, thinks Emma, polishing off the bear claw and licking her fingers. It’s not what she expects from him, and she feels that irritating flutter in her belly again. She looks up to find him gazing intently at her mouth as she sucks the last of the glaze off her thumb. The flutter intensifies. 

She offers him a hesitant smile. “Ready to go?” she asks. 

He blinks and gives his head a slight shake, then returns her smile somewhat weakly. “Ready when you are, love.” 

-

Ten minutes after they get on the road the snow begins. The flakes are large and heavy, and they settle rapidly even on the warmth of the highway. 

By the time forty-five minutes have passed the snowfall is so thick Emma has to squint to see as far as the front of her car. She’s slowed almost to a crawl, clutching the steering wheel and cursing Mary Margaret with every breath. 

“I _told_ her I didn’t have snow tires!” she cries, hating the panic in her voice. “I can’t go any faster than this and also I can’t see. Which means no one else can see me. What if someone who does have snow tires comes along faster and rear-ends me?” 

She doesn’t dare take her eyes away from the swirling white beyond her windshield, but she can see Killian in her peripheral vision, frowning at his phone. “It’ll be all right, Emma,” he says soothingly. “There’s a little inn just up here, we can stop there for a while. 

His voice is calm and carries an authority that she can’t help responding to. Slowly she releases her breath and feels her shoulders relax. “An inn?” she asks. 

“Aye. Surely they’ll have someplace we can sit for a while until the snow lets up. Look, here’s the turning.” 

“All right,” Emma agrees, gingerly navigating into a narrow road marked by a large brown sign that she can just make out through the snow. Anything to get her off the slippery highway in her un-snow-tired car, she thinks. 

The inn turns out to be delightful, quaint New England clapboard with a large stone fireplace full of roaring fire and a lobby bursting with well-loved furniture. The stern old woman at the reception desk gives them a glare when they stumble in, snow-covered and shaken, but softens visibly when Killian turns his blue eyes on her and pleads their case. 

“Of course you’re welcome to sit in the lobby for a while,” she says. “Though I have to warn you, the forecast says the snow’s going to keep going at least until tomorrow morning.” 

“How did this _happen?_ ” Emma wails. Her hands are still shaking with nerves and she’s too upset to protest when Killian takes them in his to warm and steady them. “I checked the forecast last night and it was fine!” 

“Freak storm,” says the old woman with a shrug. “It happens. Would you two care for a pot of tea while you wait?” 

“That would be lovely,” Killian replies with a smile. “Thank you.” 

The woman brings them tea and a plate of beautifully decorated sugar cookies in the shape of turkeys and cornucopias and Pilgrim hats, and Killian entertains Emma with stories about history, true ones he swears, that have her laughing and gasping and cringing by turns. It doesn’t escape her notice that he’s distracting her, helping her relax after her panic in the car, and though she would never admit as much to him she’s grateful for it.

They manage to linger over their tea for nearly an hour and a half, but when the pot is empty and the cookies eaten and snow is still falling just as heavily as before—heavier, even—they are forced to concede that they’re stranded. Killian goes to see about getting them some rooms for the night while Emma calls Mary Margaret. 

She answers on the second ring. “Emma, thank goodness, I was just about to call you. You’re not out driving in this are you?” 

“No, but Killian and I are stuck on the road.” 

“Oh no!” 

“No, no, not like that. We’re at an inn, but we won’t be able to make it to your place or anywhere else today.” 

“No, of course not! No one is, actually, the snow started so early and came on so strong. So we’ve decided to postpone the dinner until tomorrow.” 

“Mary Margaret, I don’t know—” 

“Tomorrow, Emma. The forecast is calling for sunny skies.” 

“The forecast _has_ been wrong before,” says Emma with a heavy irony that Mary Margaret blithely ignores. 

“It won’t be this time,” she says firmly. “I’ll expect you and Killian by noon at the latest.” 

Emma sighs. “See you tomorrow,” she says. 

She hangs up and turns to see Killian approaching. “MM says they’ve postponed the dinner because no one can make it through the snow, but it’s rescheduled for tomorrow,” she says. “Are you free?” 

“Aye, love, that’s fine,” he replies. He tries to smile but there’s a nervous tension to his posture that makes her frown and wonder what the hell else has gone wrong. 

“What’s the matter?” she asks. 

“Um.” Killian scratches at a spot behind his right ear. “It, uh, appears that a number of people pulled in here to escape the snow, and most of them decided to stay the night before we did. There’s only one room left.” 

“ _Of course_ there is.” 

“I’m so sorry, Emma.”

She shakes her head, too frazzled and mentally exhausted to be angry. “It’s not your fault,” she sighs. “Look, can we just— let’s just go to this room, is that okay? I could really use a bit of alone time.” At this point she doesn't care where they go as long as it’s someplace quiet and private where she can decompress. 

“Of course it’s okay,” says Killian. He holds up a key. “It’s room six.” 

-

Room six, it turns out, because as Emma has discovered over the course of the past few hours the universe _hates_ her, contains one bed. A double bed, according to the description, but when they stand together in the doorway looking at it, it appears much, much smaller. 

The bed is small because the room is small, and when they step inside and close the door behind them they realise it’s also icy cold. Killian fiddles with the knobs on the ancient looking radiator and Emma kicks it with the heel of her boot, but it remains resolutely non-responsive. 

“I’ll call Granny,” Killian offers. 

“Granny?”

“That’s what the old woman told me to call her. Perhaps she knows how to fix the radiator, or where to find someone who can.” 

Granny apologises profusely but says that the inn’s maintenance man is with his family for Thanksgiving and wouldn’t be able to get through the snow. She claims the pipes in that part of the building are temperamental and tend to turn off and on at will. 

“It might come on later,” she says, “but I can’t guarantee it.” 

She offers Killian a discount on the room and and although he thanks her warmly, as he hangs up the phone he can’t help reflecting that no discount in the world could provide much comfort in his current situation. 

He fills Emma in and she sighs, collapsing backwards onto the bed and throwing her arm across her face. “I suppose it’s fitting, really, everything that could _possibly_ have gone wrong with this day has gone fucking wrong.” 

“Sod’s law,” agrees Killian. 

“So what are we going to do?” 

“I don’t know there’s anything we can do, Swan, except make the best of it. I’ll sleep on the floor—” 

“You can’t.” 

“Of course I can, it’s no—” 

“No, Killian, you really can’t,” she says, sitting up and glaring at him. “You’ll freeze. And there aren’t enough blankets. We’re grown fucking adults, we can share a bed for one night. It’s no big deal.” Her eyes dare him to gainsay her. 

“As you wish, Swan,” he says. 

She nods and begins to unzip her boots. “I need to do something mindless for a while,” she says. "I’m gonna see if there’s a dumb movie on TV and just veg.”

“Very well, I’ll leave you to it.” He turns and heads for the door. 

“What? Where are you going?” 

He stops and looks back at her with a small frown. “Granny told me there’s a library downstairs that guests are welcome to use. I’ll go there and find something to read,” he replies. “That should give you a few hours to yourself.” 

Because she said she needed time alone, Emma realises. She forgot all about it, but Killian clearly didn’t. She looks at him, at the confusion wrinkling his brow and his hair mussed by the wind and snow, and she thinks about how calm and supportive he’s been all day. How he’s turned out to be far better company than she ever imagined, and how she really doesn’t want him to go downstairs and read while she’s here in this cold room alone. 

She doesn’t want him to go. 

“Um,” she says hesitantly. “You could stay? If you’d like.” She attempts a careless shrug, without success. 

His face softens with an emotion that she refuses to analyse. “I’d like that very much,” he says. 

He takes off his shoes and she her boots and they get under the blankets together, wriggling a bit to warm up the cold bed. Emma takes the remote and flips through the channels until she finds _Miracle on 34 th Street_. The original.

“It’s just starting!” she says with a genuine smile. “At least that’s one good thing to happen today.” 

“You like this movie, then, I take it?” 

“It’s one of my favourites. It’s technically a Christmas movie but Ruth and David and I always watched it on Thanksgiving, since it starts with the Macy’s parade. It was like our official start to the Christmas season.” 

Killian smiles. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it.” 

“Not a fan of old movies, Mr History Professor? I’m surprised at you,” she teases. 

“I love old movies, just not Christmas ones.”

She turns to look at him but the teasing smile dies on her lips when she sees his face, and _remembers_. “Your brother,” she says, wanting to kick herself. “His accident happened on Christmas.” 

Killian nods. “And it’s when my father left us, too. Boxing Day the year I was eight. Christmas is not a great time for me.” 

She feels a surge of sympathy, of _kinship_ —her Christmases pre-Ruth were also not great—and an almost overwhelming urge to comfort him, to assure him that this Christmas won’t be like the others. They can spend it together, she wants to say, and make some new memories of their own to wipe away the old ones. The urge astonishes her but it also feels _right_ , and she ruthlessly squashes it before it can carry her away. She can’t promise him Christmas or anything else, she reminds herself firmly. This closeness she thinks she’s feeling is only an illusion, brought about by the stress of the day and the pure coincidence of them both having unhappy childhoods.

She says nothing, but Killian’s sad smile is making her heart ache and before she can think better of it she slides closer to him on the bed and tucks her arm around his, letting her head fall onto his shoulder. His muscles tense beneath her fingers and for a moment she thinks he might pull away. “Well, if you wanted to start watching Christmas movies, this is a good one,” she says. “Heartfelt but not manipulative. I think you’ll like it.” 

She holds her breath then releases it slowly as he relaxes, as he leans back against the pillows and lets his cheek rest on the top of her head. She smiles. 

-

When the movie ends, Emma brushes the tears off her cheeks and reluctantly untangles herself from Killian. He’s insanely warm and it’s not until she sits up that she realises how relaxed she was cuddled up and watching one of her favourite movies with her head on his shoulder. She also realises she’s starving. It’s past three in the afternoon and she’s had nothing to eat all day but a bear claw and some cookies, and Killian hasn’t actually eaten anything. 

“Hey,” she says, “Is there a restaurant in this place?” 

He smiles at her, and it’s a different smile than the ones she’s used to from him. Softer, and simply happy. “I believe so,” he replies. “Are you hungry?” 

“Starving.” 

“Me too. Shall we go see what they’ve got?” 

Granny greets them warmly and apologises again for the heater, promising to make up for it with some good hot food. She points them towards the small diner attached to the back of the inn and tells them to have whatever they like, it’s on the house. 

The diner is Americana just shy of kitsch, with cracked Formica tabletops and a neon Coca-Cola sign. An old jukebox wails from a corner in the back and the waitresses wear ruffled aprons and very short skirts. Killian stops dead in the doorway, his mouth dropping open as he takes it all in. 

“This is everything I ever wanted an American diner to be,” he says, and Emma laughs. 

They sit in a booth and examine the menu. It’s packed with all the cheesy, greasy things that Emma loves, exactly what she’s craving, and she wavers between grilled cheese with tomato soup or a cheeseburger. 

“What are you having?” she asks Killian. 

“Um, fried chicken, I think.” 

“That doesn’t sound very healthy,” she teases. “Aren’t you all about eating your vegetables?” 

“What makes you think that?” he asks, frowning at her. 

“Well, whenever I come home with takeout you give me a _look_ and ask if I’ve eaten anything green lately.” 

His frown softens and he looks abashed. “My apologies, Swan, I shouldn’t pass judgement on your eating habits,” he says. “It’s very bad form. Sometimes I just—” he breaks off, looking down at the menu. 

“Just what?” 

“Just… struggle to think of what to say to you,” he confesses with another scratch behind his ear. “And fear that if I say what I truly wish to you might never speak to me again. You can be a bit prickly, love.” 

“Prickly,” she repeats, staring at her own menu though the words are a blur. She’s heard such things before but somehow never thought she would hear them from Killian. 

“It’s not a criticism,” Killian says quickly. “Just a fact.” He reaches out to cover her hand with his, and she surprises herself by not pulling away. “I like your prickles.” 

She smiles, a tiny quirk at the corners of her mouth. “No one likes prickles.” 

“I do. They’re a challenge, and as you know I love those.” 

“You have mentioned that once or twice,” she says, risking a glance at his face. He grins at her and she can’t help returning it, holding his gaze until the waitress arrives to take their order. 

-

When they return to their room after the meal, armed with toothpaste and brushes and two men’s undershirts courtesy of Granny, it occurs to Emma that despite the pitch blackness outside their window it’s only about six in the evening and she doesn’t normally go to bed until past midnight. What the hell is she going to do in a tiny freezing room with Killian Jones for six hours? 

_You know what you’d like to do_ , whispers a voice in her head, and Emma firmly shoves away her memories of the warmth of his body against hers as they watched the movie that afternoon, the strength of his arm beneath her hand. She wants to know what that arm feels like wrapped around her, wants his heat warming her bare skin. She just wants him. 

She looks over at Killian and he gives her a hesitant smile. She’s having an increasingly difficult time reconciling this man, this self-avowed history nerd who is nervous about being alone with her with the smooth flirt who rarely spends the night alone that she’s spent the past year unsuccessfully trying to avoid. 

Killian clears his throat. “Shall we see if we can find another film to watch?” he asks. “Or one of your baffling football games? I understand that there are many to choose from on Thanksgiving Day.” 

“You find football baffling?” she says with a laugh. 

“Aye, certainly, in the sense that it baffles me why you would call a sport ‘football’ when only one player’s foot ever touches the ball,” retorts Killian. 

“Uh huh. And I suppose you like soccer.” 

“Proper football, aye.” 

She rolls her eyes dramatically and he chuckles. “I’m not really in the mood for football, but another movie would be nice,” she says. “Um, should we…” She gestures vaguely with her hand. 

“Should we what, love?” 

“Should we get ready for—I mean, it’s way too early for _bed_ bed, but there’s nothing else to do and no place else to sit, and it’s kind of uncomfortable wearing jeans under the covers, so—” 

“Its okay, Swan,” he says gently. “I don’t really fancy lying in bed in my jeans either. It’s definitely not the most comfortable thing, though this afternoon was lovely.” 

She nods. The afternoon _was_ lovely, but they were clothed then and now they would be... not. 

“Great,” she says. “I’ll just, uh...” She sidles past him into the bathroom where she brushes her teeth and changes into one of the shirts Granny gave them. It’s big enough to cover her, just, but leaves her legs completely bare. Her hands tremble as she smooths the fabric over her hips, and when she thinks about Killian seeing her like this her heart tries to beat out of her chest. 

When she comes out again Killian is also wearing one of the shirts. It’s tighter on him, of course, stretching across his chest in a way that makes her mouth go dry. She watches his shoulders flex as he folds his jeans and shirt neatly and lays them on a chair, then stands up straight and runs a hand through his hair. His shirt rides up, exposing a strip of pale skin sprinkled with dark hair just above the waistband of his boxer briefs. 

“Bathroom’s free,” she tells him. Her voice is breathy. 

“Thanks, lo—” he breaks off when he turns and sees her, his eyes visibly darkening as they travel down the length of her body. He nods, swallows hard. “I’ll just be a minute,” he says. “Why don’t you see what’s on?” 

"Okay,” she agrees, and they shuffle around each other in the small room, carefully avoiding even the whisper of a touch. When the door closes behind him Emma dives beneath the blankets, mentally berating herself. What the _hell_ does she think she’s doing, preparing to snuggle in bed with Killian, wearing only a very skimpy t-shirt? What does she actually want to happen here? She huffs a frustrated breath and grabs the remote. The first thing that’s going to happen, she decides, is she’s going to find them a damned movie. She can’t think about anything beyond that. 

Killian emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later and gets into the bed beside her, looking wary. As he settles back onto the pillows his leg brushes hers and the sensation of rough hair against her skin makes her jump. 

“Sorry,” he says. 

“Don’t be.” She slides closer, hears his breath catch. “Warmth, remember?” 

“Aye.” Tentatively he puts his arm around her, lets her snuggle against his chest. It’s firm and warm, and she can feel the rhythm of his heartbeat. He tucks the blankets around them and she sighs in contentment. 

“Have you ever seen _Home Alone?_ ” she asks him. 

“I have not.” 

“Well, you’re in luck. It’s just started.” 

After _Home Alone_ they watch _Die Hard_ , and although that’s another of Emma’s favourite movies they’re barely halfway through when she finds her eyes drifting shut. Killian’s chest is so warm beneath her cheek and his arm around her so solid. His body is pressed all along the length of hers, and despite the fact that the tip of her nose is numb from the icy air in the room she feels snug and cosy and safe. With a small hum of contentment she lets her eyes stay closed and sleep carry her away. 

When she begins to snore Killian switches off the TV and watches her instead. Her hair is mussed and tumbling over his chest and shoulder, tickling his neck and his nose with its sweet scent, and her own nose is pink from the cold. She sighs in her sleep and snuggles closer, tucking her leg between his. His arm tightens around her and he clenches his jaw as his cock jerks in response. 

_Steady on, mate,_ he tells it. _Now is not the time._

He has to tread very, very carefully here. This day, with the snow and the bed and the snuggling for warmth, the conversations and the meals together, has all been so intimate. _Seemed_ so intimate, but he knows it’s a false intimacy based on proximity and stress, and once they leave this little bubble they’re in it will evaporate into the air. If he moves too quickly, pushes too hard, then once that illusion of closeness is gone he and Emma will be further apart than ever. And Killian knows now that this would break his heart. 

So he resists the urge to stroke Emma’s cheek, to press a kiss to her forehead or let his fingers slide beneath the hem of her shirt to brush her bare skin. Instead Killian cradles the woman he’s rapidly falling in love with close against his heart and closes his eyes. 

_Slow,_ he reminds himself. _Take it slow, or she’ll run._

He turns his face into Emma’s hair and wills sleep to come. 


	4. FRIDAY

When Emma comes slowly awake the next morning she’s warmer and more comfortable than she can ever remember being. She feels consciousness encroaching, urging her out of her cocoon, but she keeps her eyes firmly shut, resisting it. Though her mind is still hazy and unfocused she’s certain she doesn’t want to leave this cosy, comfy state she’s in, not yet. Not when walking would mean facing the day, a day in which she’s going to have to get back in her tiny car and drive on snowy roads with Killian, and … _Killian!_

Her eyes fly open and she’s suddenly very conscious of the reason she’s so warm. She’s positively wrapped around him, _they’re_ wrapped around _each other_ , legs entwined, with one of her arms tucked against her side and the other on Killian’s stomach, beneath his shirt. His hand is also on her bare skin, curled around the small of her back while the other is tangled in the ends of her hair. Her head is nestled on his chest while his cheek rests against her forehead. 

Emma freezes, unsure of what to do. If she tries to untangle herself she might wake him but if she doesn’t… well, he’ll have to wake up eventually. 

As if on cue his eyes flutter open and she’s momentarily caught up in the hazy, sleepy blue of them. He smiles. 

“Morning, love,” he says, in a voice rough with sleep. He’s still not fully awake, she realises, soon he’ll remember what happened yesterday and why they’re in bed together, and then they’ll both pull apart and this lovely moment will be lost. And she’s not ready for that to happen yet. 

Before she can think better of it she tilts her head up and lets her lips brush his. She keeps her eyes open, watching his as they widen in surprise then darken with unmistakable desire. She kisses him harder, parting her lips slightly and he makes a growling noise deep in his throat and sinks his hand into her hair, pulling her tightly to him and deepening the kiss. 

He’s an incredible kisser, thinks Emma wildly as his tongue strokes hers. Soft but firm and just wet enough... and then he rolls her onto her back and she can’t think at all. His hand slides beneath her shirt to cup her bare breast and she moans, letting her legs fall apart as he nestles between them. She can feel his cock thick and hard against her, rubbing her through the thin barrier of their underwear and she clutches at him, desperate to feel him even closer, to have his skin against hers. She tugs his shirt off and he does the same to hers, tossing it away and staring at her with heat in his eyes before diving back down to suck a nipple into his mouth. She grips his hair and digs her fingernails into his shoulder, wrapping her legs around him and grinding against his erection. 

He pulls his lips from her breast and takes her mouth again, deeper this time, hotter and wetter and everything _more_ and it’s still not enough. Emma yanks at his hair until he breaks the kiss. “Please,” she gasps. “Please.” 

“Anything,” he replies. “Anything you want, love.” 

“Want you.” 

“Oh, _God,_ ” he moans. “ _Emma._ ” 

“ _Please,_ Killian.” 

He kisses her again as his hand slides down her body and beneath her sodden panties. She’s never been so wet and ready in her life, and the first brush of his fingers against her clit she nearly comes. 

He’s not in much better shape, his eyes glassy and his breathing shallow as he strokes her. “Feels so good,” he murmurs. “Fuck... wanted this so long.” 

“Me too,” she gasps, and his eyes fly to meet hers, his thumb pressing against her clit and his fingers inside her and then the morning air is rent by the ring of a telephone. 

Emma wants to scream in frustration. She _wants_ to scream in ecstasy, but she can see the haze begin to clear from Killian’s eyes as the shrill noise penetrates the sleep and the lust and he remembers where they are and why they’re here and panic settles on his features. 

He pulls his hand from between her legs and she whimpers in protest, but he’s too busy apologising to hear. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, scrambling from the bed. “I didn’t mean—I must have—bloody hell, I’m so sorry, Swan.” 

The phone begins to ring again and Emma snatches it from the bedside table. 

“What?” she snarls. 

“Emma?” Mary Margaret’s voice is far too cheery for so early in the morning, and tinged with surprise. “Is everything okay?” 

Emma squeezes her thighs together, feeling the empty ache between them, the still-tingling memory of Killian’s fingers stroking her and the wet squelch that’s embarrassing now that she’s alone in the cooling bed. She looks for Killian but he’s gone, the bathroom door shut tightly. She sighs. 

“Yeah, Mary Margaret, I’m okay. It’s just early.” 

“Yeah, sorry about that, I just wanted to let you know that the snow’s stopped and the news says the roads are clear, so you shouldn’t have any problem getting here.” 

“Okay. Just let me get a shower and some coffee and we’ll be on the road.” 

-

Killian slams his hands down on either side of the bathroom sink and barely refrains from punching the mirror. 

_What the hell were you thinking?_ he berates himself. _You call that taking it slow?_

His hand shakes as he runs it through his hair, his blood still pounding, cock still hard and aching like a son of a bitch. He can smell Emma on his fingers and he groans, clenching his jaw as he turns on the small shower. He steps inside and leans against the wall, letting the spray wash over him and fighting for calm. 

What’s done is done, and he can’t change it. All he can do is beg her forgiveness and hope he hasn’t ruined everything. 

-

Killian emerges from the bathroom fifteen minutes later, his hair damp from his shower and dressed in his clothes from yesterday. His face is blank and his eyes unreadable. 

“Swan,” he begins, “I’m—” 

“It’s okay,” she interrupts, making a small, sharp motion with her hand. “Forget it.” 

“But—” 

“I said forget it, Killian! It never happened.” She risks a glance at him and could swear she sees hurt on his face, and a hint of relief. She looks away again. “I’m just going to shower and get dressed and then we should get going.” A thought strikes her. “If you’re still okay to go?” she asks. 

He hesitates for a moment, then nods. “I still want to go,” he replies. He sounds determined. 

“Okay, we’ll leave in half an hour.” She takes a deep breath, releases it slowly. “Would you mind seeing if Granny has any coffee?” she asks. 

He offers her a small smile. “Of course, love.” 

She returns it, and feels like they’ve found their tentative balance again. 

-

When Emma comes out of the bathroom washed and dressed Killian is waiting for her, holding a steaming mug. She accepts it gratefully, inhaling the welcome aroma before taking a sip. 

“Granny didn’t have any cinnamon syrup,” Killian says. “But she sent you this.” He offers her a plate containing a large, sticky cinnamon roll. “She says she hopes that will make up for it.” 

Emma smiles. “It definitely does.”

The day is bright and sunny and the roads are clear, and they make good time to Mary Margaret and David’s. Emma’s quiet in the car at first but Killian, encouraged by her seeming willingness to put the morning’s events behind them, draws her out with some gentle teasing and fun facts about snowstorms that soon has her laughing, and almost before they know it Emma’s bug is pulling into the driveway of Ruth’s house, now David’s. 

They get out of the car and she shoots him a nervous look. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” she asks. “There are a lot of them. Just act natural. But also like my boyfriend! I mean—” 

Killian chuckles and puts his arm around her shoulders. “Relax, love,” he whispers in her ear, his breath ruffling the fine hairs at her temple. “I told you, acting like your boyfriend poses no difficulty for me.” 

He presses a soft kiss to her temple that sets her heart racing and she’s just about to remind him that the show hasn’t started yet when she notices Mary Margaret and David standing on the porch, she grinning from ear to ear and he with his arms crossed and wearing his protective big brother scowl. 

“You must be Mary Margaret,” says Killian with a charming smile, keeping his arm around Emma as he takes Mary Margaret’s hand and gives the back of it a light kiss. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.” 

“Oh,” says Mary Margaret. “Oh my.” 

David’s scowl deepens. Killian turns to him and Emma swears she catches a glint in his eye. “And David,” he says, offering his hand to the other man. David glares at it for a moment then takes it and gives it a brief shake. Emma can tell from Killian’s amused expression and slight wince that David squeezed his hand _hard_. 

“Please come in,” says Mary Margaret. “You must have made good time, the only other people here yet are Robin and Regina.” 

Killian’s arm tightens around Emma’s shoulders and they exchange a glance. “It looks like we arrived just in time,” he says. Mary Margaret gives him a searching look, then smiles. “You did,” she says. “Emma, could you come and help me out in the kitchen? Killian, you can go with David and he’ll get you something to drink.” 

“Do you like football?” David asks as he and Killian head for the den. 

“I do,” Killian replies. “Real football.” 

“Uh oh,” mutters Emma, but there’s nothing she can do as Mary Margaret is already pulling her towards the kitchen. 

“Emma Swan,” says Mary Margaret as the kitchen door slams behind them. She turns on Emma, one fist planted firmly on her hip, “Who is that man?” 

“What do you mean? That’s Killian, my—the guy I’m seeing.” 

“Your boyfriend.” 

Emma shrugs, firmly ignoring the now-familiar belly flutter. “Yeah I guess, if you want to label it,” she mutters. 

“And how is it that I’m only just hearing about him?” inquires Mary Margaret.

“Well, like I said we haven’t been together long—” 

“Long enough for you to tell him ‘all about’ me and apparently about Regina too!” 

“Well, yeah, he wanted to know about who would be here today.” Mary Margaret's stern stare remains unwavering and Emma struggles not to shuffle her feet. She feels genuinely confused and if she’s honest a bit annoyed. There’s no way Mary Margaret could have figured out they were faking it already, she thinks. Is there?

“What’s the big deal?” she demands. “So I told Killian some things about you and Regina, so what?” 

“The _big deal_ ,” says Mary Margaret, “is that I’m pretty sure you’ve never told any other guy that much about your family. Or anything about us at all.” Her face breaks into an enormous smile. “Killian must be really special,” she says softly, cupping Emma’s cheek in her hand then pulling her into an enormous hug. “I’m so pleased for you, sweetie,” she says. “And proud.” 

Emma winces. “Don’t get too excited yet, Mary Margaret, it’s still really early—” 

“I know, but I have a sense about these things,” says Mart Margaret, releasing Emma and tapping her finger against the side of her nose. 

“But—” 

“I won’t say any more.” Mary Margaret mimes locking her lips and throwing away the key. She’s spent too long in the company fourth graders, thinks Emma crossly. “Now, let’s get started on the cooking. I’m glad you’re here early, there’s loads to do. Oh and don’t worry, I’ve made David promise not to murder Killian, no matter what he says about football.” 

-

Killian is a huge hit at Thanksgiving dinner, so much that Emma is almost annoyed. Even David softens enough to pick up the bait Killian keeps tossing out about which type of football is better, leading to an argument it’s clear both of them greatly enjoy. 

He’s also a fantastic actor, at least in the role of ‘Emma’s boyfriend.’ He never misses an opportunity to touch her, hold her hand or drape his arm around her shoulders, stroke her arm or kiss her hair. Emma watches in growing horror as one by one her friends and family fall victim to his charms. Even Graham likes him. Even _Regina._

“I have to say, Emma, I never thought you’d manage it,” she says, coming up behind where Emma is standing at the front window watching the fresh snow swirl in the wind. 

“Manage what?” 

“To find a man who could put up with you,” Regina sneers. 

“Well if you can do it anyone can,” Emma shoots back. Regina’s mouth quirks and she taps her wine glass against Emma’s. 

“Touché,” she says, and they both drink.

“In all seriousness, though,” Regina continues after a moment’s silence. “Killian’s one to hold on to. Robin loves him already and he’s an excellent judge of character. Don’t fuck things up with him.” 

“I’ll try not to,” says Emma weakly. 

“Good.” Regina gives her a small smile then turns to go. Emma returns her attention to the snow, losing herself in her thoughts until she senses another presence by her side. It’s Graham, sipping from a bottle of beer. 

“So,” he says. “Killian. Is it serious?” 

Emma shrugs. “It’s still really new...” She trails off, hoping Graham won’t press for details. 

“I get it.” He frowns. “Listen, Emma, I want you to know... I’ve always thought of you as the one that got away.” 

“You have?” 

“Yeah. I still wish sometimes that things could have worked out with us. Not that I expect anything by telling you this,” he adds hastily. “I know you’re not interested, and that’s okay. I just wanted to say that if it couldn’t be me I’m glad you found someone who cares about you as much as Killian does. You deserve that.” 

“Graham...” Emma doesn’t know what to say. 

“Let him make you happy, Emma.” Graham gives her a crooked grin and then Mary Margaret calls them all to dinner. 

The meal is gorgeous, juicy turkey and rich stuffing with gravy and potatoes and cranberry sauce, green beans and sweet potatoes all made from scratch by Mary Margaret, with Emma’s help. They eat until they can’t manage another bite, then stagger to sofas and armchairs to rest and digest until it’s time for pie.

Emma finds herself on the sofa next to Ruby, who is here not with Dorothy but with her new girlfriend, a beautiful but intimidating woman named Mulan. 

“Yeah, Dorothy went back to Kansas,” says Ruby. “She was never really happy here. One of those people who just prefers home.” 

“Don't we all prefer home?” replies Emma, thinking of Ruth. 

“Sure, but some of us make a home wherever we go, and others need home to be a specific place,” Ruby points out. “Dorothy was one of the second kind.” 

“Mmmm, you may be right.” 

“So what did you and Killian do yesterday?” Ruby asks. “Mulan’s cousin has a Chinese restaurant that was open even in the snow on a holiday so we were able to get something to eat. Good thing too, because we had nothing in the fridge. How’d you manage?” 

“Oh, we ended up staying at an inn off the highway,” says Emma. 

“Really? What inn was it?” 

“I can’t remember the name, Red Wolf something I think?” 

“Ah, Granny’s place! I thought it might be.” 

“Yeah, she was called Granny.” 

“No, I mean that’s my actual grandmother. Oh, that’s funny! I wonder if you saw the couple she was telling me about this morning.” 

“What couple?” 

“Oh apparently there were these two people who came in to get out of the snow. She said she’d never seen anyone so into each other as they were but then when they decided to stay overnight the guy asked for two rooms. So even though Granny still has two rooms available she tells the guy there’s only one and puts them in the one with the heater that only sometimes works. She said she figured they could use a little push, and...” she trails off as she catches sight of Emma’s face. “Whoa,” she says. “Hold up. That was you and Killian? _You’re_ the cold room couple?” 

“Apparently,” says Emma through clenched teeth. 

“But why would you want two rooms?” Ruby looks genuinely baffled, then comprehension slowly begins to dawn. “Unless…” She sits up straight, eyes glinting. “Emma Swan there’s a story here and you are going to tell me what it is. Is Killian not really your boyfriend?” 

“Keep your voice down!” Emma hisses, sitting up herself and leaning close to Ruby. “If I tell you you have to swear you won’t say anything to Mary Margaret.” 

“I won’t.” 

“Swear it Ruby! I know what you two are like, you tell each other everything. But this is my secret, and I need it kept.” 

Ruby gives her a solemn nod. “I swear on Mulan’s sword,” she says. 

“That’s— wait, Mulan has a sword?” 

“Yeah, she fights with it and everything. Polishes it every night. Sometimes I think she loves that thing more than she loves me.” She frowns at Mulan, who is chatting with Robin and Killian on the other side of the room. “So is that a good enough swear for you?” 

“I guess,” says Emma. 

Ruby nods eagerly. “All right, then dish. What’s the deal with you and the hottie professor?” 

“There’s no _deal,_ he’s just my neighbour.” 

“Oh come on,” Ruby scoffs. “Seriously?” 

“Yes, seriously! Mary Margaret was threatening to set me up again and you remember what happened the last time she did that.” 

“Ugh, yeah. Monkey-boy.” Ruby shudders. 

“Exactly. So the only way I could think of to stop her was to tell her I was already seeing someone. Then she asked me the guy’s name and the only one I could think of was Killian’s.” 

“The only one, huh?” Ruby’s voice is deadpan but her eyes are twinkling. 

“I was in a pinch!” Emma protests. “So then she insisted that I bring him to Thanksgiving and fortunately he agreed to play along.” 

“Oh yeah, _very_ fortunate.” 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

“Oh come on, Emma, fortune had nothing to do with it. That man is very obviously crazy about you, he must have jumped at the chance.” 

“He’s not crazy about me,” says Emma quietly, trying not to think about the way Killian fled from her that morning, the horrified panic in his eyes when he realised what they’d been doing. “It’s just for show.” 

“Was it for show in the lobby of Granny’s inn?” asks Ruby. “Because she told me she’s never seen anyone so fascinated by another person as the two of you are with each other. And she knows what she’s talking about. It’s because of her that I found Mulan.” 

“No offence, Ruby, but you go through girlfriends, and boyfriends, like most people go through socks. How long have you and Mulan been together, exactly?” 

“Mulan is The One,” says Ruby solemnly. “Capital letters. And I know this precisely because I’ve been through so many Not The Ones. You, Emma, barely ever date so when your The One comes along you don’t have the sense to see it. But I do, and Granny does, and both of us are telling you that Killian is The One for you. And you for him.” 

Emma shakes her head but she can’t think of anything to say. All she can think is that she can’t stand for another person to be happy for her, or tell her sincerely how much they like Killian and how good the two of them are together. She’s had enough. 

She excuses herself and flees upstairs, away from everyone, into the comforting surroundings of her old bedroom. It’s a long time since she’s been here; she prefers not to stay the night ever since Ruth passed and Mary Margaret and David moved into the house. The house is their home now, and she can’t help feeling like a bit of an interloper. 

She paces around the room, restless and antsy, unable to get her friends’ words out of her head. Mary Margaret was one thing, but for Regina, Graham, and Ruby all to think that Killian was right for her, that was something else. If only one of them said something, even two, she could chalk it up to Killian’s convincing performance. But all three…

She sinks down onto the bed and lets her head fall into her hands, squirming when she feels an odd lump under the mattress poking her backside. And then she _remembers_. She reaches under the mattress and pulls out a small, leather bound book. Her old journal from high school. She’d forgotten it was there. 

A smile breaks across her face as she flips through the pages. There’s so much in this little book she hasn’t thought about in forever. Ruth bought her journal soon after she moved in with them and encouraged her to write in it daily to help her make sense of all the difficult and confusing things she was feeling. Emma was skeptical at first but Ruth persisted, and eventually she came to realise that writing out her feelings actually did help. She wrote about the adoption and learning to be part of a family, about being new in school and struggling to make friends. About Graham, and how she tried so hard to want him and felt guilty when she didn’t. How she wondered if there was something wrong with her that made her unable to open herself up. Unable to love. She swallows past the lump in her throat and turns another page. A folded piece of paper falls out of the journal and onto the floor. Emma picks it up and gasps in recognition.

Gently she unfolds it. It’s a page torn from a magazine, she can’t even remember which one now. It was in the social worker’s office, the last social worker she saw before the adoption was finalised. She smooths out the page and begins to read the familiar words. 

It’s a poem by someone called J.L. Hook and as she reads it Emma finds it speaks to her as much now at nearly thirty as it did when she was nearly fifteen. It’s a poem about loss, about sadness, but most of all about hope. The loss of parents, the sadness of being left alone. The hope of finding a new family. Or that was young Emma’s interpretation at least. She blinks against the tears that well up in her eyes, but they roll down her cheeks regardless. 

“Swan?” She looks up to see Killian standing in the doorway. “Is everything all right, love?” he asks gently. “Why are you crying?” 

“It’s nothing,” she says, wiping at her cheeks. “Just an old thing I found.” 

“What old thing?” Killian asks, and when she gestures to the paper in her lap he holds out his hand. “May I?” 

She’s not sure she’s ready to share something so very personal with him, yet she finds herself nodding and handing him the poem. “It’s just something I tore from a magazine ages ago,” she says. “It just, I don’t know, resonated with me.” 

Killian smiles and starts to read. He can’t be more than a line or two in when the smile slips from his face and is replaced by an expression of shock and, oddly, embarrassment. 

“This resonated with you?” he says. His voice is gruff. 

“Yeah. I don’t know anything about the guy who wrote it, but whoever he is, he gets me. Teenage me, at least.” 

Killian clears his throat. His cheeks and ears are bright pink. 

Emma frowns. “What’s with you?” she asks, and then he rubs at that spot behind his ear and the penny drops. Killian’s a writer. Of poetry. Published under a different name. She gasps. “It’s you, isn’t it?” she cries. “You wrote this.” 

Killian swallows hard and gives a small nod. “Aye.” 

“But—” She shakes her head, trying to think. “That was fifteen years ago, you must have been just a kid!” 

“I was seventeen. It was right after Liam was killed. I was devastated, obviously, he was the only family I had left and we had always been so close. I was alone, completely alone in the world and I just felt so lost. It was a court-appointed grief counsellor, actually, who suggested I try writing my feelings, and, well, this is the result.” He shrugs. 

Emma stands and places her hand on his, over his fingers clenched so tightly on the page. “It’s a beautiful result,” she says softly. “It helped me so much.” 

“It did?” he whispers. 

“Yeah. I must have read it a hundred times. More. Every time I felt hopeless or alone I read it, and it comforted me. I thought, at least there’s someone who understands how I’m feeling, even if I don’t know who they are.” Gently she eases the page from his grip and lets it fall onto the bed then takes his hand again, linking their fingers and brushing her thumb across the back of his. She looks up to find him watching her with so many emotions in his eyes, and his hand trembles as he reaches up to brush the hair back from her face, his fingers curling around the back of her head as she steps closer. He leans in and she tilts her head up and—

“Hey you two, make out on your own time,” says David’s voice from the doorway, amused and ever so slightly menacing, sending them leaping apart. “Mary Margaret’s about to serve the pie.” 

As they follow David downstairs the tension between them is so thick Emma swears she could touch it, and when they arrive in the dining room and no one seems to notice it she’s actually surprised. Robin hails Killian and David goes to help dish out pie, and amidst the noise and confusion Emma slips away into the kitchen where she knows Mary Margaret keeps a bottle of whisky. Her thoughts are a jumbled mess, she’s buzzing with nerves and energy and frustrated arousal, and she’s _so_ not hungry for pie. What she wants is a drink. 

Killian finds her an hour later sitting at the kitchen table staring intently into the bottom of a lowball glass. He frowns. “Are you okay, love?” 

“Fine,” she slurs. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’ I be fine?” 

“You’re not fine,” he retorts, “you appear in fact to be very drunk. How many drinks have you had?” 

“I was just goin’ to have one,” she replies, her forehead wrinkling. “But then I had another and it tasted so good I had a third. And tha’ was two drinks ago.” She giggles. 

Killian’s frown deepens. It’s getting late and the other guests are preparing to leave, but Emma’s in no fit state to drive. “Stay here, love,” he tells her, gently removing the glass from her hand and replacing the cap on the whisky bottle. “I’ll get Mary Margaret.” 

“She’s drunk?” Mary Margaret stares at him when he pulls her aside and apprises her of the situation. “How?” 

“Well, intoxication normally results from drinking a large quantity of alcohol,” Killian replies. “Which she appears to have done.” 

Mary Margaret rolls her eyes at his snark. “But why?” she persists. “What hap—” 

“Apologies, Mary Margaret, but the wherefores and whys aren’t really important now,” Killian interrupts. “The question is how the devil are we going to get home?” 

“Can you drive?” 

“I’m not sure. I’ve had a bit to drink myself and I haven’t driven much in the States, so I’m not sure attempting it in that yellow death trap on icy roads at night is the best idea.” 

“No, good point,” Mary Margaret agrees. “I mean, you’re welcome to stay the night here. Emma’s old room is free.” 

Killian sighs. Another night away from home with no proper pajamas or change of clothes is not really what he wants, but it appears to be the best solution. And at least there’s a comfortable looking armchair in Emma’s room, and a functioning radiator. 

“Thank you, Mary Margaret, we’d appreciate that,” he says, and returns to the kitchen to retrieve Emma.

She’s got her head resting on her arms when he arrives and at first he thinks she’s asleep, but when he lays his hand on her shoulder she looks up and gives him a dazzling, very drunken smile. 

“Come on, then, Swan, come with me,” he says, holding out his hand to help her up. 

“Wha? Where we goin’?” She bats his hand away and stands up, then immediately sways on her feet. He catches her before she can fall. 

“We’re going upstairs,” he informs her. 

“Whafor?” 

“Neither of us is in any state to drive home, so we’re spending the night here. Mary Margaret says we can have your old room.” 

“You din’ ask for two rooms, then?” 

“Of course not.” 

“Wouldn’ get them anyway,” she mutters, leaning heavily against Killian’s side as they go up the stairs. His arm is tight around her waist and before they’ve made it halfway up she’s forgotten where they’re going or why, or anything except how good he feels and how much she wants to touch him. She lays her head on his shoulder and his hand curls around her hip, and when the door closes behind them she tucks her face against his neck and wraps her arms around him. 

“Emma,” he says, “what are you doing?” 

“Snuggling,” she replies, the words muffled against his skin. “I like snuggling with you.” 

“Love—” 

“You’re so warm,” she continues, clinging to him, resisting his feeble attempts to detach her. “And you smell nice. And you kiss nice. You’re just nice. I didn’ expect you to be nice. I’ve said nice too much. Nice nice nice.” 

“Aye, the exact adjective every man longs to hear,” he quips. “Emma, please, you need to go to bed.” 

“With you,” she insists. “Snuggling.” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. I can sleep in the chair—” 

“No. Bed.” 

“Emma.” 

“Killian,” she says with mock severity, scrunching up her face and glaring at him. He chuckles then groans as she wraps herself around him again. She’s adorable when she’s drunk, and far too affectionate for his peace of mind. He feels strung on a hair-trigger, wound so tightly from their clinch this morning, from their near-kiss just hours ago, that his self-control is at its breaking point. He thinks about the feel of her mouth on his, how soft and wet she was beneath his fingers, and that tenuous thread of control begins to unravel. 

Firmly, almost forcefully, he pulls her off of him and guides her to the bed, where Mary Margaret has thoughtfully laid out some pajamas for both of them. He helps Emma take off her boots and with shaking fingers undoes the button and zip on her jeans, then leaves her to get undressed and put Mary Margaret’s pajamas on while he slips into the bathroom to put on David’s. 

When he returns Emma is dressed in the flannel pants and tank top, perched on the edge of the bed. She stands when he enters, too quickly, and sways on her feet. He darts forward to catch her and she falls onto his chest, grabbing his shoulders to steady herself. His breath stops as her breasts press against his chest, her nipples so hard he can feel them through the fabric of both their shirts. He looks down to find her staring at his mouth, her lips slightly parted. As he watches the tip of her tongue slides slowly along the lower one and the thread snaps. 

His arm comes around her waist, pulling her flush against him as he takes her lips in a frantic kiss. She moans and leans into it, wrapping her arms around his neck, her fingers sinking into his hair as she kisses him back, deep and desperate. She feels so damned good, so soft and warm and achingly sensual, and just everything he’s ever wanted in a woman, and he craves her with an intensity he’s never known before. He wants to worship her, to strip her bare and kiss every inch of her, then sink deep into her softness and make her scream in ecstasy. He’s never wanted anything more. 

But he can taste the whisky on her tongue and feel the lack of control in her movements, and a tiny voice in his head is screaming _not like this._ Not while she’s too drunk to make good decisions, not while he’s so sexually frustrated he can’t think straight. Not like this. 

Killian reaches deep into himself and grasps the frayed edges of that thread of control, yanks them together and ties a tight knot. He breaks the kiss, lets his forehead rest against Emma’s for the briefest moment, then pulls her arms from around his neck and steps back. 

She blinks at him, confused. “Killian?” she says, in a breathy, needy voice that nearly breaks him. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing. It’s just late, and we need our sleep.” 

“Sleep with me,” she says with a coy smile, hooking her fingers through the neckline of his t-shirt and trying to tug him closer. 

He catches her hand and squeezes it gently before releasing it. “I’ll sleep in the chair.” 

“No.” She grabs his hand back. “With me. Please, Killian.” 

“Emma…” 

“Please.” 

Her eyes are soft and wanting, and Killian lacks the strength to resist their entreaty. He’s so bloody tired of fighting his feelings for this woman. He swallows, closes his eyes and breathes deeply. “All right.” 

He lets her lead him by the hand to the bed and slides beneath the blankets with her, tucking her back against his front and holding her securely with his arm around her waist. She hums at the feel of his erection against her ass, wriggling into it until he stills her movements with his hand on her hip. 

“Ignore it,” he says. “Just go to sleep.” 

He strokes her hip soothingly, rhythmically, until her breathing evens out and deepens and he can tell she’s asleep. 

It’s a long time before he joins her. 

-


	5. SATURDAY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so the trope-alicious trope-fest comes to an end. Thus far we have seen: fake dating, bed sharing, matchmaking, snowed in, heater not working, favourite author, found families, and drunken affection/confession. Now it’s time for some mistaken first impressions and of course the happy ending! 
> 
> I’ve loved writing this very silly thing, and especially loved the enthusiastic response it’s received from all you lovely people. Thank you ❤️❤️❤️

Slowly, carefully, Emma removes Killian’s hand from where it rests against the bare skin of her stomach and slides out of the bed. She’s instantly freezing, not because the room is that cold but just from the loss of Killian’s warmth. She wishes she could crawl back in with him, curl up against him and feel his arms around her. But she remembers just enough of the night before to know that can never happen. 

She grabs her sweater and pulls it on over Mary Margaret’s pajamas and slips through the door and downstairs to the kitchen. Her head is pounding and she’s desperate for coffee. 

Mary Margaret is already in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher and humming Christmas songs. 

“Hey,” she says. “How are you feeling?” 

“Awful.” Emma collapses into a chair and cradles her head in her hands. “Is there coffee?” 

“Of course.” Mary Margaret pours her a cup and loads it with milk and sugar. “No cinnamon syrup,” she says. “Sorry.” 

“It’s okay, I’m more interested in the caffeine,” says Emma, wrapping her hands around the mug and leaning her aching temple against it. 

Mary Margaret returns her attention to the dishwasher. “Where’s Killian?” she asks.

“Still asleep.” 

“Thanks for bringing him yesterday,” says Mary Margaret. “I know you were reluctant, but we really loved getting to know him. I’m so glad you found someone you can love.” 

Emma squeezes her eyes shut, fingers tight on her coffee mug. 

“I don’t love Killian,” she says harshly. “We only just started dating.” 

“I know, sweetie. But sometimes it doesn’t take any time at all to know you’ve found The One.” 

“Ugh,” says Emma. “Not you too.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Ruby said the same thing to me. ‘Mulan is The One, capital letters’.” 

“Well that does happen. You know that David and I knew, pretty much right away.” 

“Yeah.” 

“And Killian, I think he’s pretty sure.” 

Emma nods. He did a great job acting sure in front of everyone. She couldn’t have asked for a better fake boyfriend. If only he actually felt the way he pretended to feel.

She blinks in surprise at that thought, sitting up straight and immediately regretting it when a fresh jolt of pain pierces her eye socket. She groans and takes a gulp of coffee, then leans her head against the cup again and tries to think. Does she _want_ Killian’s pretend feelings to be real ones? She thinks about how nice it’s been these past two days, being the focus of his attention and interest, how much she’s truly enjoyed his company. She thinks about her poem... _God,_ her poem.... and about Killian and the pull she’s always felt towards him… not just the physical attraction but something more... and she thinks about how she kissed him, twice, and he rejected her both times. She gulps more coffee, swallowing a stab of pain along with it. It doesn’t matter what she wants if Killian isn’t interested, and two solid rejections have made that more than clear he’s not. She can’t allow there to be a third.

-

Killian wishes he were surprised to find himself waking up alone. But he’s not, not at all. He knows Emma, however much she might wish he didn’t, and he knows the consequences of pushing her too hard, coming on too strong. She’s run, and he’s all too aware of what that means: if he hasn’t completely fucked up his chances with her he’s at least reduced them to nearly nothing. 

He rolls onto his back, rubs his hand over his face. There’s a hollow ache in his chest, an empty feeling of loss that he tries to tell himself is absurd as he never had her to begin with. And yet the idea of going back to how things were, to the snatches of conversation in the hallway between their apartments and long stretches of not seeing her at all... now that he knows how she kisses and the feel of her skin against his... now that he knows how much she treasured his most personal poem… it’s unbearable. He’s not sure he can survive it. 

He wants to go home. Back to his familiar surroundings, to his books and his kitchen, where he can hide away and lick his wounds in peace. He drags himself from the bed and changes back into his clothes, wincing a bit at wearing the same things for the third day in a row, then folds David’s pajamas neatly and places them on Emma’s bed. He scans the room to be sure he hasn’t forgotten anything and his eyes fall on his poem, lying on the floor where it must have fallen when they got into bed last night. He picks it up and stares at it until the words are a watery blur and then he blinks the tears away, carefully folds the page and tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans. 

He finds Emma where he expected he would, in the kitchen with Mary Margaret. She looks up as the door opens and their eyes meet. He holds his breath, half expecting her to look away, but she doesn’t and he offers her a smile, small and tentative. When she returns it he exhales in relief. It appears they’re still pretending, and he figures the least he can do is put on a good performance during his last moments as Emma’s boyfriend. 

“Morning, love,” he says, giving her a one-armed hug and a kiss on the cheek. “How are you feeling?” 

“Bit worse for wear,” she replies. “Mary Margaret gave me some aspirin though and she’s making eggs.” 

“Would you like some, Killian?” Mary Margaret offers. 

“No thank you, but I’d love some coffee.” 

“Of course,” she says. “How do you take it?” 

“Just black.” 

He takes the cup Mary Margaret offers him, removing his arm from Emma’s shoulders as he does. She feels the loss like a dagger through her heart, and when she realises that’s probably the last time Killian will ever put his arm around her she has to blink back tears. 

“I’m going to go get changed,” she says. “So we can get on the road as soon as breakfast is finished. I don’t know about you, but I really want to put on some clean clothes.” 

“Aye.” Killian agrees heartily. 

“David and I have some things you could—” begins Mary Margaret, but Emma interrupts. 

“Oh, no, don’t bother, please, it’s just another two hours in the car then we can wear our own things,” she says. “I’m just going to... go… now…” she gestures vaguely and hurries from the room. 

In the privacy of her bedroom she presses the heels of her hands firmly against her eyes, forcing down the thick knot of tears rising from her throat. If she cries her eyes will be red and Mary Margaret will know something’s up. _Killian_ will know, and she can’t bear for him to pity her. She dresses quickly and runs her fingers through her hair, takes a deep breath and as she turns to go she spots her journal lying on the small table next to her bed. On a whim she grabs it, takes it downstairs and tucks it into her bag before returning to the kitchen. 

-

They don’t speak in the car on the way home. Killian tries to summon the will to tease her or tell her a story that will make her laugh but he can’t do it. He fears his heart may be breaking, and it takes every ounce of strength he has just to hold himself together around the brittle shards of it. 

Emma just wants to forget. She thinks about getting home, putting on her own pajamas and curling up on the sofa with a cup of hot chocolate and watching movies all day and just _not thinking_. Not about Killian or her hopelessly tangled feelings or anything else. 

She parks the car in front of their apartment building and they get out, still saying nothing. Wordlessly they head inside, into the elevator and out again, and to their respective doors. 

The silence is thick and tense as they unlock and open them, and then as one they turn to face each other. “Well,” Killian forces the word out, and a smile to accompany it. “I guess I’ll see you around, Swan.” 

“Yeah.” Emma smiles too, though she fears it may crack her face. “Thanks for doing this, Killian. I really do appreciate it.” 

“Of course, love. I’ll be your fake boyfriend any time, just say the word.” 

“Yeah.” 

Their eyes meet and hold and for a moment they stand still, trapped in emotion and the unspoken words that hang in the air between them. And then again as one they exchange stiff and awkward nods and turn away. 

-

Emma takes a long shower, as hot as she can stand, then gets immediately into her favourite pajamas. She makes herself hot chocolate in her largest mug, tops it with cinnamon and a truly obscene pile of whipped cream and curls into a ball on the sofa. Netflix is full of Christmas movies but none appeal to her, and when she realises she’s been scrolling aimlessly for more than half an hour she turns off the TV and throws the remote down in disgust. 

Despite her earlier resolution she can’t stop thinking about Killian. About how much she enjoyed her time with him, and how he turned out to be nothing at all like she expected. The flirting and innuendo is just one layer of him, she realises now, just the protective wrapper on the sensitive man beneath. The sweet and considerate and funny man with a strong streak of nerd that she finds ridiculously attractive. 

The man who wrote her poem. The mystery poet who understood her without even knowing her, whose words got her through one of the most difficult times in her life. It should be unbelievable, she thinks, for that poet and her flirty, womanising neighbour to be one and the same and yet she finds that it makes perfect sense. Killian hides behind snark and innuendo the way she hides behind her prickles, and she’s willing to bet that the women she’s seen leaving his apartment early in the morning, never the same one twice, are just another coping mechanism. She understands those. 

If she’d only understood it earlier. Killian has tried, over and over again, to get to know her. He invited her to dinner, offered her coffee, and each time she refused. She didn’t want to be someone he slept with once and never saw again, and caught up in her fear of pain and rejection she couldn’t see that that was never what he wanted. 

And why is that? she asks herself. 

Because she’s always felt it, that pull of connection, of recognition between them and it _terrified_ her. For a person who’s known precious little connection in her life and lost nearly everyone close to her, someone who’s spent her life wondering if she’s even capable of love, the idea of actually finding someone, of opening up to another person is a frightening thing to contemplate. 

And now it may be too late. 

She needs to sort out her thoughts, try to figure out what she wants, and now she understands where her impulse to grab her old journal this morning came from. She retrieves it from her bag along with a pen, flips it open to the blank pages at the back, settles down on the sofa and starts to write. 

Two hours later she’s mentally exhausted and emotionally wrung out, but she knows what she has to do. 

-

Emma stands outside Killian’s apartment taking deep breaths and trying to calm her racing heart. She’s just raising her fist to knock when the door swings open. 

“Swan!” Killian halts abruptly and gapes at her. He looks terrible, his hair standing up in tufts at odd angles and his eyes red-rimmed. “I was just coming to see you.” 

“You were?” 

“Aye.” He runs his fingers through his hair, tugs at it, and Emma can see now why it’s such a mess. He’s clearly in turmoil. His distress hurts her heart but before she can think of what to say to ease it he speaks again.

“Emma, listen,” he says, “I know I fucked things up, but—” 

“ _You_ fucked things up?” She doesn’t mean to interrupt him but the words just burst out. That was what she planned to say to him. 

“Aye, and I’m sorry but—” 

She shakes her head. “Wait how did _you_ fuck up?”

“I tried to push you too hard,” he says, in a voice dripping with disgust. “I should have slept in the chair last night. I shouldn’t have kissed you.” 

“You regret kissing me?” 

“ _No_ , I _—_ I regret making you uncomfortable.” He yanks on his hair again, making her wince. 

“But I kissed you back,” she points out. “I _wanted_ to kiss you.” 

“You were a bit worse for alcohol, love—” 

“I still wanted to.” 

He stares at her. “You did?” he whispers. 

“Yes of course I did.” Emma’s head is spinning again. “Didn’t you get that from the morning at Granny’s?” 

He visibly cringes, his ears turning pink. “I owe you an apology for that as well,” he says. 

“ _What?_ ” 

“I don’t know what happened.” Killian is too caught up in his self-flagellation to see the way she gapes at him. “I woke up and the next thing I knew we were kissing and I… I couldn’t stop myself from...” 

“Killian, _I_ kissed _you!_ ” 

He frowns. “Did you?” 

“You really don’t remember?”

“I—I’m not at my sharpest first thing in the morning,” he replies. “It takes me a while to wake up fully.” 

“Yeah, I got that.” She starts to laugh. 

“Is this funny?” Killian sounds hurt. 

“Not really, no. It’s just— we’ve had each other so wrong. I thought you didn’t want me.” 

He snorts. “Why, because I practically begged you for months to go out with me? Because the first chance I got to spend time with you I jumped at with both feet?”

She glares at him. “Because I kissed you and you pushed me away. _Twice._ ”

“I didn’t push you _away_ , I just didn’t want to take advantage. To push you too hard.” 

“Yeah, well I see that _now_.” She’s nearly shouting. “But it _felt_ like rejection. And that plus all your other women, well...” 

He frowns in confusion. “What women?” 

“You know, all the women that are always leaving your apartment in the morning.” 

“What are you talking about? If there are women fleeing my apartment I have no knowledge of it.” 

“They’re not fleeing, they’re just, you know, leaving. After a night of—" she waves her hand "— _you_ know. Sex hair and last night’s clothes. Those women.” 

Killian looks completely baffled. “Swan, I haven’t slept with anyone in nearly a year,” he says. “I mean, yes, when I first moved here I had a few… dalliances, but once I—” he breaks off, ears going pink once again. 

Emma gasps and her heart begins to race. He can’t possibly mean what she thinks he does. “Once you what?” she whispers. He reaches for his hair again but she catches his hand and holds it tightly. “Once you what, Killian?” 

He swallows hard, then meets her eyes. “Once I met you,” he says gruffly. “After that I just couldn’t summon the interest anymore. It’s been a bloody inconvenience what with you not giving me the time of day, but there you are.”

“But I saw…” she trails off as she thinks back to the last time she actually saw any of those women. It’s... longer than she realised. Not since the first few months Killian lived in the apartment, in fact, when she glimpsed him in passing but before they officially met. 

“Oh,” she says. “Well I feel dumb.” She looks up at him, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You really haven’t—because of me?” 

“When you say it like that, _I_ feel dumb,” he tries to joke. “But yes. I haven’t wanted anyone but you since we met.”

“I want you too,” she says softly. “I always have.” 

He pulls her closer by their still-entwined hands, close enough that she can feel his breath on her temple, see the raw vulnerability in his eyes. “You’ve got me,” he says, softer still. “You always have.” 

She fists her hand in the front of his shirt and pulls his lips to hers. He meets her open-mouthed, his own hand clenched in her hair and holding her close as they devour each other without hesitation or restraint. Emma pulls her hand from his so she can slide it beneath his shirt, desperate for the feel of his skin, and Killian curves his hand around her ass and pulls her hips hard against his. 

Emma whimpers at the pressure of his cock against her, the small noise bringing just enough awareness into Killian’s lust-drenched brain that he realises they’re still standing in the middle of the hallway. 

He breaks the kiss. “Emma,” he pants, letting his forehead rest against hers and trying not to notice how wrecked she looks. 

“Hmmm?” 

“I wonder if you’d care to share a bed with me again,” he says. “For more enjoyable activities this time.” 

“More enjoyable than sleeping?” she teases. “That’s a bold statement. I love sleeping.” 

“Bold, you say?” He grins at her cheek. “Is that a challenge? Because you know how I feel about those.” 

“Definitely a challen— _oh!_ ” she cries as he scoops her up and carries her into his apartment, kicking the door shut behind them. 

-

“So does this mean you’ll finally have dinner with me?” Killian asks much, much later as they lay entwined in the tangled sheets of his bed. 

“If you want,” she replies, and Killian frowns. 

“Of course I want,” he says. “I think we’ve established pretty firmly how much I want you.” 

“But are you sure you want, like, an actual full-on relationship? I’m not the easiest person to be with, Killian. I work long hours and I don’t open up easily. I mean, you said yourself I’m prickly.” She bites her lip and he can see the fear and worry in her eyes. 

“And as I told you, I like your prickles,” he says, running his hand up and down her back until she begins to relax. “I like everything about you.” 

The other L word dances on the tip of his tongue but he swallows it back. She’s not ready for that yet. He puts the word into a kiss instead, letting her feel how much he treasures her, and when they break apart the worry is gone and her eyes are soft and happy. She snuggles against him with a contented sigh and in that moment he knows— _knows_ —that he won't have to wait too long to tell her how he feels. And for now, the knowing is enough for him. 

For now.

-

Three hundred and sixty three days later Emma wakes up warm in a very cold room. She grins and snuggles closer to the source of the warmth, her very own personal radiator. 

Killian just rolls his eyes when she calls him that, but she knows that deep down he loves it. 

He’s still asleep, his hand pressed against her bare skin, his cheek on her hair. She nudges him and he opens his eyes, blinking sleepily. 

“Morning, love,” he says. 

“Morning yourself.” She rubs her cheek against his chest. “You remember the last time we woke up in this room?” 

“Aye. You accosted me before I was properly awake and had your wicked way with me.” His morning voice is deep and rumbly and it still does funny things to Emma’s insides, even after nearly a year. 

“Are you properly awake now?” she inquires. 

“Not _quite_ yet. Why don’t you accost me again?” 

“Well, if you insist,” she purrs, and kisses him. 

A moment later her phone begins to ring. They ignore it. 

-

They linger in bed for as long as they dare, but Emma’s phone continues to ring and so they drag themselves up and get ready to head for Mary Margaret and David’s for Thanksgiving dinner. 

Killian shrugs on his coat and feels around his various pockets for wallet, phone and keys. When he’s sure he has all three he scans the room for anything they’ve forgotten, then looks over to find Emma sitting on the bed watching him with a small smile. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Nothing.” She gets up and goes over to him, kisses him on the cheek. “I just love you.” The words come so easily to her now but they still make his heart soar each time he hears them. Just as it soars whenever he sees the framed poem above their bed, when he thinks about everything it represents for them, how far they both have come. 

“I love you, too,” he replies. He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looks into her eyes. “Are you happy, Emma? Truly?” 

“What? Of course I am.” She frowns. “Are you?” 

“Very. More than I ever imagined I could be.” 

“Me too.” 

He kisses her, soft and sweet and full of love. “Are you ready to go?” 

“Yeah, though I should probably call Mary Margaret back first to let her know we’re on our way.” 

“All right. I’ll go check out and you meet me in the lobby when you’re finished.” 

Mary Margaret answers on the first ring. “Emma!” She sounds half-panicked. “Where are you? When are you going to be here?” 

“Um, in about an hour, I guess.” 

“Really? Are you calling from the road?” 

“No, Killian and I stayed last night in the inn where we got stranded last year." She shrugs, even though she knows Mary Margaret can't see. "Kind of an anniversary thing.” 

“Oh, that’s sweet.” Mary Margaret sighs. “Killian’s so sweet.” 

“Mmhmm.” Returning to the inn was Emma’s idea, but she’s not about to admit it. Only Killian is allowed to see her soft, sentimental side. And besides, Mary Margaret’s not wrong. Killian is sweet. 

“Well, I’m glad you’re not far, honestly," says Mary Margaret. "Regina and Robin are already here so the sooner you arrive the better.” 

"We’ll be on our way as soon as Killian’s done checking out.” 

“Great! See you soon, sweetie.” 

“See you soon.”

-

“Did you sleep well?” asks Granny as she swipes Killian’s credit card. 

“We did, very well. Bit cold this morning, though, the heater went out during the night.” 

Granny nods. “Happens sometimes in that room, as you know.” _You should know,_ her tone suggests, _you requested that room specifically_. 

She hands back the card along with a pen and the receipt for him to sign. 

“I do indeed,” Killian agrees, signing his name with a flourish. “Oh, and by the way...” He gives her a razor sharp smile as he slides the receipt back across the reception desk. “I’m on to you, old woman.”

“What do you mean?” Granny tugs at the receipt but he doesn’t relinquish it. 

“I know what you did last year,” he replies. “With the ‘only one room’ and the ‘broken’ heater. Are you aware that my girlfriend’s sister-in-law is Mary Margaret Nolan?” 

“Darn it, Ruby,” huffs Granny. “That girl never could keep a secret.” 

Killian thinks that’s rather unfair. Ruby has kept his and Emma’s secret admirably. 

“Aye,” he growls, still holding the receipt. “And I have only one thing to say to you.” 

“Oh? And what’s that?” 

“Thank you.”

-


End file.
